


From the Bottom Up

by today



Category: Karlie Kloss - Fandom, Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/F, Height difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 22:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5181893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/today/pseuds/today
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since Red came out; one long, torturous year, and—oddly—Taylor thinks there was never a moment that she felt taller than she does now, standing in the middle of a snowy wonderland, performing beside the tallest girl she's ever met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Bottom Up

**Author's Note:**

> On this edition of 'blogs I lurk': Karlie's height, Taylor's height, Taylor's posture (why?), and the difference between the two.
> 
> If you're reading this, you _probably_ know who you are.

Nashville is like freedom.

Although Taylor loves Pennsylvania, loves the Christmas tree farm in winter, when the firs and evergreens grow tall and strong, and green needles litter the heavy layer of snowball-perfect snow; although she loves the forest by her home, the vast, never-ending ocean of grass swaying in the sweet breeze, although she  _loves_  it, Pennsylvania is no Nashville.

Nashville is the sun after a storm, the breath of fresh air after a long car ride; it's the drink of water in a desert, the stretch of sore muscles after hours of sitting still. For Taylor, Nashville is spreading her wings and opening her mouth to finally sing the words bottled up inside, begging to be heard. Nashville is everything she has ever dreamt of and hoped for.

For Taylor, Nashville is freedom.

And sometimes, when she's sitting alone in her kitchen in California, the muffled sound of expensive cars passing by her windows, her head in her hands, shoulders collapsing under the weight of it all, she misses it.

 

* * *

 

In spite of everything, in spite of all the success and the fans and the music, between the media and the boys and the relationships, Taylor's back has become more crooked, her neck more bent over the years.

It happens, when you're trying to curl in on yourself, to take up as little space as possible. When you're protecting yourself from all the glares and barbs they throw at you. She had her glory; it was only a matter of time before they started stabbing her in the back.

Head down, stay quiet, no confrontations. That's how it is.  _Don't lift your chin, they won't like that. They'll call you arrogant_.

And it's been so long, that when Taylor finally leaves the shadows of her cage, finally steps into the sunlight and uncurls from the hunch she's adopted, she can't even stand up straight.

 

* * *

 

The Red era is simultaneously the best and worst period of her life.

The album is unlike anything she's ever done before. It is everything she wished for when she left Pennsylvania with her family to chase her dreams. The spotlights shining above her, a stadium of screaming fans, and the world at her fingertips. Red is all the words pouring golden from her mouth.

But the lights are blinding, and the shadows are deep and dark and endless, and she can't even hear herself thinking anymore over the shrill, discordant cacophony surrounding her. Red is passion and strength and vengeance, but it's also destruction.

 

It's not as if it should be a surprise, but it is. Like, one day she's on top of the world and standing tall and proud, and then the next she's carrying it on her shoulders. It happens to everyone like her, all the ambitious, young hopefuls trying to make it big. People always find something, some kind of ammunition; no one is really bulletproof. Taylor knew it would happen eventually, was almost expecting it. But that doesn't make it any less shocking, any less of a slap in the face when things finally come crashing down.

Maybe Taylor should have seen it coming, after John, after her publicist started dictating her dating life, cycling through different boyfriends a little too often. Maybe that should have been a sign. She should have suspected something, probably, when the articles started cropping up here and there, ones that weren't so nice, weren't so complimentary of America's sweetheart.

Where it was warmth and sunshine before, the backlash during Red is nothing short of a white-hot fire, crawling its way up her body and blazing trails across her skin. Every bit of her has been ripped open, ripped  _apart_ , raw and exposed, and burns flare on every inch of her body, shiny and painful and a bright, burning  _red_.

 

* * *

 

The first time, the very first time Taylor encounters Karlie Kloss, it's 2011, before Red and everything it entails.

It isn't for another two years, really, not until the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show that they meet, officially and deliberately, but Taylor's initial impression of Karlie at the Met Gala sticks with her from the moment she sets eyes on her, Karlie young and fresh-faced at eighteen to Taylor's twenty-one. In that split second when they come face-to-face for the first time, there's basically one thing going on through Taylor's mind, and that's—

Tall.

Karlie is so, very, incredibly  _tall_.

And it's funny, because as blatantly apparent as that fact is, how inevitably prominent, it hardly seems to matter at all—is completely swept from her mind—when the next second all Taylor can really see is her face, and her eyes, and the way she carries herself.

The dress Karlie is wearing shimmers and glints on her frame like molten gold bathed in a waterfall of light. Amongst the flashes of the cameras and the rush of bodies, her hair seems to dance with a life of its own, shiny and delicate. Her shoulders are confident, spine strong, and every movement she makes seems purposeful, careful and graceful and precise like the notes in an arpeggio. Every little thing about her is achingly beautiful, the way Taylor kind of thinks models should be, but so very few are.

Her eyes are a brilliant green, warm, soothing,  _soft_  in a way that even Taylor—who has yet to experience the cruel inferno of Red—recognizes. And then Karlie's eyes look down at her. She smiles, and Taylor's just a lost cause.

That's how it starts: Taylor's head raised as if in prayer, staring at a girl who can only be described as an angel.

 

It's no different, really, two years later. Karlie is the same: she's still almost preternaturally tall and elegant and beautiful, an Angel in every sense of the word. It's Taylor that's different.

Taylor, who is just the ghost of her former self; a pillar torn down, the rubble and debris left behind the only indication that anything had been there before at all. A sunken ship, lost to the torrential downpour and crashing waves all around her.

If Karlie notices the slump in Taylor's shoulders now, notices the way her head juts out just slightly on her crooked neck in a way that's concealed in the photo shoots and on the magazine covers—if Karlie notices how  _small_  Taylor is beside her now, then she doesn't show it.

Instead, she greets Taylor like she's an old friend, gives a pleased shout and hugs her. Taylor wonders how they must look beside each other, how ridiculously out of place she must seem, like a dilapidated ruin beside a magnificent temple. Karlie seems untouchable, shiny and pristine and perfect, and Taylor—Taylor is none of those things, has  _never_  been any of those things. She stopped believing that the same moment the world started crumbling around her, when her fantasies and her fairytales started crumbling with it. The moment she began to fall apart, too.

And then Karlie bends her knees so they're more level and, for one nonsensical moment, Taylor thinks, with her chin tucked securely over the model's shoulder, it's almost as if they're the same height.

 

"You're so tall!" Karlie, the proverbial giraffe that she is, says enthusiastically. Among the other girls in the room in various stages of prep, she stands out sorely, hair nearly luminescent in the fluorescent lights. She reminds Taylor strangely of a lighthouse, and she thinks wildly that must be why people gravitate towards her, why they pay rapt attention to her whenever she speaks.

 "If the singing gig doesn't work out, you could totally model," Karlie continues, tone joking but sincere. "I can give you a glowing recommendation." She winks.

They're surrounded by models on all sides, thin and beautiful, but the singer doesn't notice them at all. The roar of shouting stylists and the rush of backstage workers dissipate around their little bubble, the little beacon of brightness in the raging storm. The shadows seem smaller and, for an instant, the world seems calm and quiet, the ocean still around them.

Taylor laughs, even as her back straightens minutely, heart soaring at the words.

 

It's been a year since Red came out; one long, torturous year, and—oddly—Taylor thinks there was never a moment that she felt taller than she does now, standing in the middle of a snowy wonderland, performing beside the tallest girl she's ever met.

 

* * *

 

It starts sort of as an afterthought, a little thing.

Karlie is so tall in all of her six feet—Taylor's told she's actually even taller—it's just natural that Taylor should extend herself to try to bring them more level.

 

* * *

 

People have been telling Taylor for years that she and Karlie would be great friends because they're so similar, but none of them could have prepared her for how Karlie would change her.

She gets a haircut on a Wednesday in London, surrounded by fans and friends, both the new ones and the old that have stuck with her from the beginning and through Red. The atmosphere is excited and bright, just the way she likes it. Things are sort of a blur, a general confusion of noise and colours, with loved ones surrounding her on all sides, but Taylor is still acutely aware of the absence of her tallest friend.

There's something incredibly cliché, probably, about getting her hair cut after the year she's had, and it would be a point of weakness, another flaw in her foundation, if anyone actually knew what she'd been through. Instead, people will think she's trying to make a fashion statement, and the media will probably twist it the way they always do, say that she's just making a big spectacle of another frivolous, insignificant thing. And it's a foreign feeling, but Taylor's not really sure she cares anymore. Not that she wants people to think those things about her, it's just.

Red is behind Taylor now; not the songs or the fans, but everything else. She's ready to leave that helpless feeling behind, to cast it aside. It can join the growing pile of skeletons in her closet, the ones that can't hurt her anymore. This is the end of an old age for Taylor, and she knows what she's doing.

No one questions her motive for the cut, but Taylor remembers what she told Karlie three months ago, when they were talking about her hair, and Taylor was talking about something else entirely; remembers the way she felt beside her, the way it felt to raise her head and stretch her neck, to sing for no other reason except that she loves it.

 

Big Sur is surreal, in the way it's so ordinary.

Of course, while they're on the road, fans still ask to take pictures with her, and security is always right behind them, but it's different. Calmer, more soothing.

Sometimes, Taylor will still glance at Karlie out of the corner of her eye, to check how she's dealing with the attention, but she only ever has a serene smile on her face. Occasionally, the tall girl will notice her gaze, and maybe it's the bright, blinding smile she sends her, or the soft, reassuring one that makes Taylor refocus on the camera in front of her, cheeks red and flustered, but with a pleased smile on her face.

"I'm sorry," she says once, when she walks back to where Karlie is waiting with their things, head bowed. "I just never want to disappoint a fan—they've all done so much for me—and a picture is just a minute out of my life, and I just, I—" She stops at the feeling of Karlie taking her hand in hers, Taylor looking up into her shining green eyes as she smiles at her. The blonde looks down again, blushing in earnest.

On the road, Taylor obsessively looks over the itinerary on her phone, fretting about the time they've lost because of their detours and pit stops, but Karlie only laughs, the sound lingering for an instant before being ripped away by the wind whistling through their open windows. "Come on, Taylor," she says, and she laughs again, at the wind, at the freedom of driving down a deserted road, at the simple joy of  _being_. "It's a road trip! We're supposed to be spontaneous."

"I just don't want to miss anything," Taylor says worriedly, bent over her phone, tweaking their schedule meticulously. "There's so much to do, and I want it to be perfect."

"Don't worry about it," Karlie says casually, eyes on the road, "there are always other road trips."

Taylor's head whips up, back straightening as she stares at the girl driving beside her, and the smile grows slowly on her mouth. She locks her phone and directs her eyes in the vicinity of Karlie's window where the rich, green tree line rolls past them, but Taylor's sight is trained only on the green eyes in front of her.

It's a Tuesday and Taylor is driving when she glances at the girl beside her, sitting quietly in her seat. Karlie is looking out the window, eyes faraway, her lips curled in a loose, absentminded smile. She looks like an angel with the little yellow flower Taylor picked for her in her hair, and Taylor vividly remembers their meeting at the Met Gala nearly three years ago. Karlie looked like an angel back then, too, and she's still the same girl as the one she met on the red carpet, even though she isn't dressed in a priceless dress and her hair is twisted into a casual knot, face only made up minimally. Different, but the same.

Maybe that's what makes Taylor trust her: the feeling that she's known her for years, or maybe it's how lovely her eyes look in the light, but she does trust her, totally and implicitly. The singer makes her decision almost without thought, sitting up in her seat, squaring her shoulders as she takes a deep breath.

"Can I play you something?" Taylor asks, and she expects to be nervous, but her voice is smooth and calm, and her hand is steady as she fiddles with the stereo system. Karlie turns to look at her questioningly. "It's not done yet," she continues, "and it's kind of different, but I'd really love to hear your opinion about what I have so far." Taylor looks up, and the soft smile on Karlie's face doesn't change, so she presses play, drumming her fingers on the console between them as the playlist starts.

Music fills the car, and Karlie's face brightens as she realizes what she's listening to. She bobs her head along to Taylor's music, and Taylor grins when she hears the model's voice joining in on the choruses. She dances in her seat, cheers at particularly dramatic sequences in the music, and Taylor sees the flower dancing in her hair, a yellow streak flitting along with the rest of her.

Once the music stops, they sit in silence for a moment, and the singer finally feels the nerves setting in as her fingers drum faster, waiting for a response. After a long pause, Karlie takes the hand between them with both of hers, turning to face the other girl.

"Taylor, that was amazing! I loved every second of it, and I'm so happy you wanted to share what you made with me," she says sincerely. The blonde takes her eyes off the road for a moment to make eye contact with Karlie, and time stalls like it did on the red carpet at the Met Gala all those years ago, except it isn't Karlie's height that catches her attention, and once again Taylor is lost in her smile and the feeling of Karlie's hands around hers.

Karlie lets go, turning back to face the front as she gestures wildly with her hands, going through each song systematically, the way she knows Taylor will appreciate. Karlie isn't a musician, but Taylor values her thoughts all the same, nodding along thoughtfully to each and every word.

The sky darkens as Karlie continues speaking, and Taylor enjoys how excited and passionate she gets when she talks, hands articulating wildly. The singer watches her intently as she drives, focused on the little gleam in Karlie's eyes and the curl of her lips around her words.

She doesn't ask why there aren't any country songs, why the play list is entirely pop. Not once does she ask who these lyrics are about, or which exes Taylor wrote them for, and her heart swells with affection. Once Karlie finishes, she looks back in Taylor's direction, their eyes level as she finally notices her staring.

"What?" Karlie asks, smiling as her hands settle in her lap.

And there are a million things Taylor could answer in that moment, a million things she could write a million more songs about. But it all seems superfluous, unnecessary in that one, perfect moment, and they have all the time in the world; other road trips, like Karlie said.

So she doesn't say any of them, shaking her head. Instead, she whispers, "Thank you," and Karlie smiles warmly as she takes Taylor's hand again, squeezing it as their fingers intertwine.

 

Taylor is in a meeting room at her record label with Scott Borchetta and more important people she doesn't know the names of when she tells him what her new album is becoming and he asks her to change it. Scott tells her to write a couple country songs, to  _replace_  a few of the songs she's already set on. The murmuring of voices in the room becomes louder in agreement with him, and for a moment, Taylor hesitates. She lets her head fall, looking down at both of her hands as they twist together in her lap, her short hair falling into her face. And, suddenly, she thinks of the warmth of a different pair.

She remembers the look on Karlie's face in the failing light as she talked enthusiastically about the songs on Taylor's album, never doubting for a second that it was anything it shouldn't be. And Taylor doesn't entertain any of it, any of the things her label is asking of her. Taylor won't let them dictate what she does, not when it's  _her_  music.

Sitting at one end of the table, Taylor smiles sweetly, perched on the very edge of her seat, back straight, and the voices of the people she doesn't know quiet as the words pour like iron and steel from her mouth. "My album is a pop album. It's made up of pop tracks. I'm not going to write any songs I don't want to." She folds her hands in front of her on top of the table, fingers steady, her eyes bright. "Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

And Taylor isn't about putting other people down to make herself feel big, but she feels incredibly tall when every single person in the room is stunned into silence.

 

* * *

 

The funny thing is, Karlie doesn't exactly shy away from the topic of her height. In fact, she brings it up herself sometimes.

But as much as it is an important trait of hers, even an essential one considering her career as a model, Karlie doesn't make it out to be. She is so modest about it, even self-deprecating, and she never comes off as superior or conceited. Taylor doesn't even think she has it in her to be either of those things.

Taylor asks her about it, once, after having marvelled over it, over Karlie, for an entire afternoon, sitting in the kitchen of her new apartment.

Karlie only shrugs, going to swipe a bit of cookie dough from the bowl on the counter. Taylor reaches across to slap her hand away, and the model juts her lip out dramatically. The other girl rolls her eyes.

"It's a part of me," Karlie says finally. "Nothing I can do about it." She hums, eyes faraway. "I don't know if I'd really do anything about it even if I could," Karlie adds thoughtfully. "Although it might be nice not having to be scared of hitting my head on the door frame, or punching a hole in the ceiling. Good for shelves, though," she says playfully.

Taylor giggles, and Karlie smiles. The singer sobers quickly and her face falls a little, turning somber as she whispers, "Aren't you ever ... Don't people ..." Taylor's words disintegrate in her throat. Her shoulders hunch a little.

Karlie looks at her seriously. It seems out of place in the brightly lit kitchen and on her perfect face. A trace of flour streaks almost comically across the top of her left cheek, and Taylor thinks for a ridiculous moment that it looks a little like war paint.

Warm, white light streams through the kitchen windows, and Karlie reaches forward, her fingers pulling Taylor's chin up gently. She places her hands on the singer's shoulders, rubbing them from the points where her neck meets them and outwards over and over again, as if to smooth them out. The silence is comfortable, natural, and Taylor likes the way Karlie looks from where she stands, her hair bunched in a messy bun, her face clear but for the flour on it. Behind her, the oven beeps, signalling that it is finished preheating. Karlie ignores it.

"Hey," she says. "Don't listen to any of them, that's rule number one. You don't need them in your life." Karlie's voice is soft, plush like the down in Taylor's pillows, or the fur around Olivia's neck, and the sound is soothing in her ears. "Head high, chin up," she finishes tenderly, her words, the very idea of them, completely alien to Taylor, who has only ever heard the opposite.

They stand like that for a long moment, Karlie's hands comforting resting on Taylor's shoulders, and she looks down as Taylor looks up. The oven beeps incessantly in the background. Without realizing it or meaning to, Taylor's lips stretch into a smile, and Karlie grins victoriously.

"Come on," she says brightly as she turns away, busying herself with the cookie dough in the mixing bowl, "we've got cookies to bake!" She turns back around, and Taylor can just make out a smudge of chocolate showing starkly against the flour on her cheek. Taylor rolls her eyes, reaching up to thumb at it. She pulls back to show Karlie. Without missing a beat, Karlie gasps exaggeratedly.

"Taylor!" she exclaims. "You're not supposed to eat it before we've baked them!" Taylor stares at her, mouth agape.

"You're unbelievable," she mutters finally. The model only smiles winningly in response. Taylor rolls her eyes again good-naturedly, grumbling, before reluctantly cleaning the chocolate on her thumb off with her tongue. Karlie laughs triumphantly, and the sound is wonderful and free, and it reminds Taylor a little of Nashville, and the way leaves flutter in the wind.

 

* * *

 

Karlie is good at pretending the paparazzi don't bother her, but Taylor knows how to read her now, and sometimes she can see the traces of unease flickering in her eyes.

They're leaving the gym once when the cameramen are being particularly aggressive, and Taylor's security detail has to get more involved than usual. Most of the time the men behind the cameras are polite, if a little insistent, but these ones are absolutely horrible.

"Taylor!" they scream. "Taylor, Karlie!" Taylor ignores them, looking behind her briefly to make sure the other girl is still following, but they get separated in the crowd of bodies.

"Karlie!" one begins to fixate on the taller girl. "Karlie, give us a smile! Aren't you a model?" Once Karlie doesn't respond, the man shouts again, "Aren't you a model, Karlie? Isn't that all you're good for?"

Taylor's head whips around to look back at the other girl in time to see her tense, body rigid as she looks down and her shoulders curl in, rushing faster towards the suburban. For a moment, Taylor almost goes back, but her security rushes her forward. They make it into the back of the car, Karlie a few seconds after Taylor, and they're speeding down the road as soon as the door is shut.

"Karlie," Taylor says softly, turning to face her. The other girl snaps out of her stupor and she looks up to give Taylor a small smile. Taylor's heart breaks at the sight of it, and she throws herself forward, arms wrapping around Karlie's neck. The other girl hesitantly brings her arms up to return the hug.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," she whispers. Karlie doesn't say a word, but her grip tightens, fingers grasping at Taylor's shoulder blades. "Don't believe a word of what they say," Taylor says, pulling back, her hands still resting near Karlie's collar. They make eye contact, blue staring into glistening green. "You're a model Karlie, an amazing one, and there's nothing wrong with that, but you're also so much more than your work." Her thumbs swipe soothingly over Karlie's cheeks over and over again, catching a single tear streaming down her face. The other girl's lips curl into a more reassuring smile, and they hug again. Karlie’s head knocks gently against Taylor’s, and the singer presses a delicate kiss to the crown of her head.

For one, furious moment, as she rubs a soothing hand up and down Karlie's curved spine, the other girl's chin resting on her shoulder, Taylor wants to drive back to the gym and launch herself out of the car at the man who said those things. She wants to grab a rock and smash it into the lens of his camera, to send it hurtling to the ground along with him, and—

Karlie should never have to make herself smaller; not with Taylor. She won't allow it.

 

* * *

 

If Nashville is freedom, then New York is something else altogether. It's something old and something new, it's starting over again and going back to the start; it's a revival, a breaking out of her cage and becoming something better and stronger. It's a rebirth, it's Taylor unfurling her wings again and rising from the ashes; it's—

 

1989 is everything.

Fall arrives much faster than what Taylor is accustomed to, the time all but flying by. New York is beautiful, the colours of autumn seeping into the leaves and the streets and the people. She relishes in the smell of pumpkin spice coming from every café she passes, smiling at the seasonal decorations she sees on the corner of every street. At the local supermarket, Taylor examines the seasonal produce on display, mentally checking off ingredients to recipes she can cook for dinner with Karlie.

The end of October approaches with startling haste, and before she can even really register what's going on, the clock is striking midnight and the album is officially released.

"How do you feel?" Karlie asks from beside her, grinning as she curls her long legs underneath her, bundled in a blanket on Taylor's couch. It looks permanently wrapped around her, like it might be difficult to untangle, but she doesn't say a word in complaint, and the singer is sort of glad, because she doesn't think she could move even if she wanted to, cemented to her spot on the sofa.

"Like I might throw up," Taylor replies. "But the good kind. Like, sunshine and happiness and joy might come out of my mouth." Karlie raises an eyebrow. She pauses. "Maybe a bit of dinner."

The other girl laughs, and Taylor relaxes slightly, watching Karlie's shadow flit around beside hers in the flickering candle light, both of them dark and immense on the walls.

1989 is everything she could ever have hoped for, and everything she has been working towards. Taylor tells herself she doesn't need it, but the validation from her fans and the general public fortify her, and she has never been more sure in her life.

During interviews, she doesn't flinch at the questions she's asked, certain in her music and her accomplishments, and she sits up, tall and composed, as she answers every one of them.

 

* * *

 

Taylor isn't in love with Karlie. That would be ridiculous; she has only really known her for less than a year, and they were both busy for most of it.

But she wants things, with her. Taylor wants to go on secret road trips with her. She wants to wake her up at ungodly hours so they can see the sunrise at the beach. When they go on hikes, Taylor wants Karlie to drag her along when she's tired. She wants to look up to the sight of Karlie's green eyes among the leaves of the trees around them.

When they're out shopping, Taylor wants to hold hands with Karlie, to dance under the city lights with her as they laugh. Taylor wants to run through the airport into Karlie's outstretched arms when she comes back from her shows, to bury her face in the crook of her neck and inhale the soft scent of the shampoo clinging to her skin.

On Christmas Eve, she wants to exchange presents with Karlie at midnight, to make terrible, vegan hot chocolate with her, with the gummy, gelatin-free marshmallows she keeps in her cupboard for these occasions. And the morning after, Taylor wants to be woken up by Meredith pawing at her face, or by the sunlight streaming in through her curtains; maybe the sunshine shining white off Karlie's teeth.

Taylor wants to lean forward and take Karlie's beautiful face into her hands, to press a soft, sweet kiss onto the grin she finds there.

And it would be magical, because it wouldn't be different from any other morning they would wake up beside each other.

So, no, Taylor isn't in love with Karlie.

It means something, though, that she thinks she could be.

 

* * *

 

"Will you teach me? How to walk?" Taylor asks haltingly. Karlie turns to look at her, smiling already. Taylor looks away. "It's just that, you know I'm doing the Victoria's Secret show again this year, and I'll basically be performing Style for the first time, and—" Taylor begins to speed up nervously, rambling, "—the stages I'm performing on for the tour have these runways, and I want to make it a thing where I do walks during Style. So yeah," she finishes lamely. Karlie's smile grows until she's grinning widely.

"Of course I'll teach you!" she answers eagerly. Taylor releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. "I'm so glad you're asking me!" Karlie laughs happily. Suddenly, a mischievous glint flashes in her eyes. "Ballet too?" She gets up from her seat on the couch, moving into the empty space in the middle of the room.

Taylor grimaces. "You can try your best. I don't think I'll ever be like—"

She breaks off as Karlie pirouettes easily, warming up, her form perfect.

"—that." Taylor rolls her eyes.

 

She flies into London giddy and confident, perfectly ready to give her best performance and outdo last year's show.

Of course, when they're actually on the runway filming and Taylor is performing, there's not much of anything going on in her head. Taylor forgets everything Karlie taught her during the first take and wonders how much of a fool of herself she's making as soon as they reach the end of the walk on the second, hand in hand. Taylor glances at Karlie beside her, which sort of just makes her forget everything all over again for a different reason.

The day after, her manager sends her a rough cut of the version of the show they're going to air, and Taylor watches it with bated breath. She smiles when she realizes they went with the second take, grins when she sees the close-up of when their hands clasp together.

Once the video finishes playing, Taylor sits back in her bed, looking up at the high ceiling, and thinks that she doesn't feel much like a dilapidated ruin anymore.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Taylor catches Karlie looking at her worriedly after the 1975 concert, after all the media outlets blew up with blurry images of them hugging and pressing sloppy kisses to each other's cheeks. As if Taylor might explode at her one day, or tell her they're better off apart. Mostly, she looks worried that Taylor hasn't talked to her about it yet.

The snow is piling up outside the window and they're sitting beside each other on her couch, watching Christmas specials on Taylor's flat screen. Karlie has taken to sitting as far away from Taylor as she can, and today she's nestled into the corner of one end of the couch, taking up as little space as her tall figure will allow. Taylor sits in the place she always does, one side of the middle, while Karlie leaves a wide berth between them.

There is a lull in the movie, and Taylor glances to her right, catching a glimpse of the model's chest rising beside her as she takes a silent, faltering breath, a sigh the singer wasn't meant to hear or notice, and Taylor turns her head sideways. She looks Karlie over closely, the way she's curled in on herself, how nervous she looks, chin tucked into her chest as she plays with her fingers, green eyes lost and unsure, and Taylor won't allow it, not any of it; not at all.

"Can I kiss you?"

Karlie's head whips up, eyes wide, her face utterly stunned as she is rendered completely speechless, and Taylor remembers the road trip all those months ago in her car, when Karlie had surprised her just like this without even knowing it.

The television screen flickers and the sounds coming from it fade, the air around them stilling, as Taylor turns to face Karlie completely, kneeling on the seat cushion. She leans forward. "Can I kiss you?" she asks again, softly, as she takes both of Karlie's fidgeting hands in hers, squeezing them gently. The model calms almost immediately as she squeezes back, blooming like a flower as her back straightens and she lifts her head.

Taylor's eyes meet hers, blue staring up into familiar, shimmering green. Karlie smiles, and Taylor's a lost cause.

 

* * *

 

First, she wears heels that are five or six inches tall.

Then, it's four or five. Finally, three or four.

Of course, Taylor still wears the fives and sixes sometimes, the skyscraper heels that hurt her feet, the ones that she'll change out of up to three times in one day. There's no helping it, especially at awards shows and events, and especially if Karlie is with her.

But she's a little taller these days, and sometimes it's even nice to have people, to have  _Karlie_  towering over her, looking down on her. It's a little like being knocked down a peg, or maybe Karlie's just one rung above her, leading the way. And it's comforting, to be reminded of that; to be reminded that she's not alone up here, to think Karlie is with her, holding her hand through it all. Craning her neck, having to look up isn't so bad with a view like this.

It reminds Taylor a little of being in a forest, maybe the one in Big Sur, looking up at the sky, sun high in the air, with the green leaves of the trees lovely and bright in the light.

 

* * *

 

The door to her apartment slams open as they stumble over the threshold kissing, Taylor's hands tangling in the other girl's hair as Karlie grips her waist. Her arms come up to rest on Karlie's shoulders and, for once, it's Taylor calling the shots, as she advances forward and Karlie steps back. They stagger into the wall, Karlie gasping as the breath is knocked from her lungs, and the singer closes the distance between them before she can refill them. They exchange hot, open-mouthed kisses, Taylor moaning softly as Karlie's breath hitches over and over again.

The singer runs her hands down Karlie's arms and her sides as she kisses her, pausing at the hem of her top before skimming underneath it. Her nails skate across the model's stomach and the girl underneath her fingers jolts, shivering, a moan slipping from between her lips as her grip on Taylor's hips tightens. The older girl takes Karlie's bottom lip between her teeth in response, biting down sharply, and the model makes a soft sound that tugs at something hot in the singer's stomach. She glances up at the other girl as Karlie's eyes slip closed, rolling backwards.

Taylor pulls back, hands braced against the wall either side of Karlie's head as they pant hard and fast. Even with bruised lips and flushed cheeks, leaning against the wall for support, Karlie looks perfect, standing as if poised for the camera. Her hair is artfully mussed, eyes dark and alluring behind hooded lids, and her back is as straight as ever, posture absolute.

But tall and confident, back uncoiled like a snake about to strike, Taylor barely has to stretch for their mouths to meet again.

 

It's dark, the sun low in the sky, as Taylor stands at the stove, fixing them dinner. Karlie sits on the counter beside the pot; it's the warmest spot in the room but she doesn't complain, and Taylor doesn't really want her to move, anyway. It's nice, serene; the only sounds that permeate the silence are their calm breaths and her windows rattling softly like leaves in the wind.

The stew's simmering comes to a lazy stop, and Taylor sips a bit from the ladle before holding some out for Karlie. The other girl leans forward, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, mouth closing around the spoonful held out to her. Her face screws up in concentration, green eyes focused and thoughtful. She holds out the salt at the same time Taylor holds her hand out for it, and Taylor doesn't have to move at all to kiss Karlie thanks, and it is so, so incredibly easy.


End file.
